10192017Headline:

No Date Night For You

"Oh, my wife left me because I went on our date night without her. La la la."

“Oh, my wife left me because I went on our date night without her. La la la.”

I’ve always felt that the strongest marriages are built on miscommunication. Experts disagree, but it’s only through gross amounts of misinterpreted verbal exchange we see one of the party gets left out of plans to have fun and stays home to paint cabinets instead.

Subsequently, both Husband and myself are so stunned by the quality and coverage of the paint, all misgivings are forgotten, and I accept the bag of trail mix wrapped with a decorative ribbon, which is presented in hopes of atonement.

Cabinets, trail mix, till death do us part. Stronger marriage.

If none of that made sense, it’s because it doesn’t, and I still have paint in my hair and between my toes.

Plans for Saturday night were, originally pretty solid. If you’d asked me, “On a scale of one-to-ten, Paige, how solid do you think your plans are?”, I would’ve said, “They’re an extremely dense ball of rubber bands.”

(If you don’t believe me, pick one up sometime. They take ages to put together and are worth every second because of their delightful propensity to bounce.)

But even the best rubber band balls fall apart, and I was, instead, left having this conversation…

“So, my sister forgot she was babysitting tonight and made other plans.”

Husband waved me off. “No big deal. I’ll go to the wedding, and we’ll skip the reception.”

“So, I’ll tell my Mom we don’t need her as a backup?”

“Nope, we’ll have another night out soon.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, 2015 is a long way off.”

So I cancelled the babysitter, chased the children around like a zombie, taught the baby how to make zombie noises in case we’re ever in some sort of contrived survival situation, and waited for my love to return and help with the desolate wasteland that is bedtime. Four o’clock presented him back in the kitchen.

“I think I’m going to go to the reception.”

In an effort not to throw it, I set the box of macarroni and cheese down on the counter. “What?”

“It’s ok because I got a ride.”

“You said you didn’t want to go, and to cancel the babysitter.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to go.”

“When did I say that? What gave you the impression I didn’t want a night out? My knit brow, or the fact I started tunneling out of here while you were gone?”

“Is that why you’re holding a bent teaspoon?”

“I said we didn’t have to go if we couldn’t find a babysitter. But we did. And then you told me to tell my lovely, saint-of-a-mother not to come over.”

“Oh.”

How this had happened was beyond me, but the fact we had no sitter and I’d been left with no time to get ready locked hands in a pretty rough game of Red Rover, and made it apparent I wasn’t going anywhere. Slowly, I admitted defeat.

“It’s ok. These cabinets need to be painted. And who better to paint them than a woman wearing a t-shirt, uncomfortably-fitted shorts, and a sour expression? I know you’re first guess would be Renee Zellweger, but I’ll be at the helm tonight.”

Quietly, and for his own safety, Husband slipped out the front door, and I managed dinner time, bedtime, and a glass of wine, before I clambered up the cabinets. It was there the Robin Thicke Pandora station and I delicately encased the upper portion of the kitchen in majestic white chalk paint. Robin may be a tad misogynistic, but his catalog makes for a smooth application and matte finish.

If you’re wondering, no, I’m not mad at Husband. Miscommunication happens, but with it comes trail mix. And, if you all take anything from today’s entry, it’s that you can get me to stop being mad at you, if you hand over a thoughtful mix of cashews, peanuts, almonds, and M&Ms.

Side Note: The cabinets are just one in a slew of projects going on around here. They didn’t tell me to say it, but if you or someone you love is getting ready to paint cabinets, try this stuff. It’s so wonderful, I want to bathe in it.

What?

No, this isn’t a renovation blog now. I did tell you how I put trim on my doorway upside down, right? I didn’t? Well then, move along. Nothing to see here.

Until Next Time, readers!

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.


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